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Naia’s eyes darted around for something—anything.

Amidst the gravel was a stick. It was small, but something.

She snatched it up and took off towards the inferno.

With luck, the end of the branch caught fire quickly. Naia sent it sailing through the air, striking the burning match through the nightrazer.

It let out a deafening screech.

The woman whipped around, the flickering light of the flames illuminating her face.

Violet.

The glint in her eyes was murderous when they landed on Naia. Her pink hair was the color of rust. It wept down her face and all over her suit. Her vibrant and cheerful demeanor was nowhere to be found. In fact, she looked as if she’d crawled out of Moros itself.

Her eyes focused on Naia, and the fierceness in her features softened.

If they weren’t being ravaged by shadowy creatures, Naia would’ve hugged her.

“Are you okay?” she shouted through the commotion.

Before Violet could answer, another ear-piercing screech ripped from behind.

Naia spun around to find a nightrazer disintegrating inches from her back.

Damian emerged through its sweeping remains, the sleeves of his button-up tattered, and his face covered in soot.

“Vi, get your crew to the warehouse,” he ordered. “There’s a barrier up keeping these shadow bastards out. Noah and his crew are trying to get to the wounded.”

Violet nodded once and then looked at Naia. “Welcome to the Blood Heretics!” She smiled wide, throwing her tiny fist up. “Give them hell, Goddess!”

Fearlessly, she spun around and plunged into the hectic scene of fire and fighting.

Moisture welled in Naia’s eyes, contradicting the warmth of acceptance and absolute fright tangling inside of her.

“Look alive, Goddess.” Damian nudged her shoulder to get her attention. “You mean a great deal to the Blood Heretics, so try not to get yourself taken, okay?”

Naia turned to him, momentarily stunned by the genuine way he regarded her. “Where is Ronin?”

“He—”

A loud hissing sounded. They both whipped around as small white flakes floated in the air.

At first, Naia mistook it for soot, but when she stuck out her gloved hand, the delicate frozen shards melted on her leathered fingers.

Snow.

The remnants of the brewery groaned under the weight of the encroaching ice. A bone-chilling gust tore through the air, instantly freezing everything in its path and extinguishing the flames. Naia was awestruck as they flickered, determined to stay alive.

Theon’s ghostly-pale hair caught the corner of her eye. She rotated in his direction.

He stood on the broken brewery’s rooftop, surveying the carnage below.

It had been several minutes since a blood bomb had set off. And without the flames to ward them away, nightrazers began descending like hawks.

“Fucking hell,” Damian snarled. At her side, his body jerked, one foot stepping out to spring into action, but then he suddenly halted.

Spikes tore up from the ground—sharp, dripping, crimson. Briars. Twisting and growing, the nightrazers caught in their entanglement like macabre ornaments.